


seed of mischief, of joy

by inkedinserendipity



Series: A Critical Collection [4]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: (and so did Jester), Gen, I missed her so much, Yasha is back and I am ecstatic my dudes, spoilers for episode 86
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-22
Updated: 2019-11-22
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:34:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21525277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkedinserendipity/pseuds/inkedinserendipity
Summary: In the temple of the sun god, the Lord of Storms makes a request.
Relationships: Jester Lavorre & Yasha
Series: A Critical Collection [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1363993
Comments: 12
Kudos: 106





	seed of mischief, of joy

**Author's Note:**

> Y'all, episode 86 destroyed me. I yelled so much at that episode that I lost my voice. Yasha returning, Caduceus coming through with that Bless and that Dispel Magic, Yasha _being saved_ , Yasha healing Beau, Caleb's HDYWTDT, _Yasha's_ HDYWTDT, Obann's death...one of the best episodes ever. Cannot believe I got to watch some of it live. Incredible.
> 
> The idea for this came to me as just one line: "Little spark of mischief and joy." You'll know it when you see it. And from there, I just couldn't get this whole scene out of my head.

Even with its mirrors shattered, its walls singed and its ceiling burned, there is a certain light about the cathedral of Pelor that remains undimmed. Though there is water pooling on the floor from the storm that continues to rage outside, lightning crackling to throw the griffin riders, no longer fighting but still wary, in stark relief against the silhouette of the sky, though the rumbling of thunder drowns out even the anxious murmuring of a city in fearful waiting, the Nein find refuge among the pews of the temple. 

Fjord and Beau, thoroughly bloodied and exhausted, curl up in two parallel benches, their legs crossed in the same way, and are asleep within moments. Caleb picks up Nott and carries her to one of the less-damp corners, as far from water as they can find, his fingers tapping anxiously along her elbow as she smiles fondly and rests her forehead, exhausted, on his shoulder; Jester watches as Caleb carefully burns away the stagnant pools of water to steam with careful, patient reapplication of cantrip after cantrip, forging a warm, dry corner for both of them to rest. In the brightest of light through the most intact of windows sits Caduceus, his hands folded peacefully, his mouth moving quietly despite the blood trailed down his temple, in deep meditation. 

And by the door, cleaning her sword repetitively, her brows drawn not in anxiety and not in grief but in some dark, troubled emotion that Jester cannot name, sits Yasha, alone in the most shadowed part of the temple.

Thunder rumbles across the city. Moments later, lightning throws Caduceus’s features in stark relief, the noise breaking Caleb’s concentration for a moment as some of the steam collapses in a hiss back to water, splattering again against the floor. But the beat of the rain against the ceiling stays steady; and Fjord and Beau, drawing breaths to the rhythm of the rain, remain wholly asleep. 

She could pull out her sketchbook. She’s not really tired, and a lot happened today that the Traveller is definitely going to want to hear all about, but...Jester doesn’t really feel like drawing right now. She mostly feels like celebrating, like she wants a big glass of milk and to be in a warm inn with all of her friends, but she _also_ mostly feels like being somewhere very quiet and very alone so that she can just sit and think – or maybe to not think, she isn’t sure – about everything that happened today. 

They got Yasha back, and Jester should be very very happy about that. And she is! But most of her is just really, really tired. 

So instead she sits and watches. Watches as Caduceus’s meditation deepens, watches Beau and Fjord fall further into a well-earned rest, watches Nott lower Caleb’s arms gently and take his face in her hands. Watches Yasha polish her sword, well after it is clean of all rust, and of all blood. 

Jester lets her head fall back against the wall. Her legs are getting pretty cold from all this rainwater she’s sitting in, and the rain keeps peppering pretty hard against her head, but she doesn’t really want to move. Most of the cathedral’s walls are broken anyway, and it’s been raining for hours now without end, so Jester doesn’t even really think there’s a better place she could be. 

Jester is thinking over her sketchbook again (mostly; part of her is still thinking about Beau, and Yasha’s face as she struck Beau down, and then Yasha’s face, later, when she healed her), and she jumps with her whole body when a voice she’s never heard before says, _“LITTLE SEED OF CHAOS; LITTLE SPARK OF MISCHIEF AND JOY. WILL YOU HEAR ME?”_

Jester looks around. Nothing is different; there is still just the Nein, resting, and Yasha, cleaning, and the rain, still pounding and pouring and weeping. Her heart pounds in her chest. “Who the fuck?” 

_“I AM THE STORM,”_ the voice says. It is not words, not as Jester is used to, not in any particular language; but there is message and meaning in the concussive sounds all the same. _“YOU ARE CLOSE TO ONE OF MY CHOSEN.”_

Jester perks up. “Oh, you’re the Stormlord! Hi! Yasha has told us a lot about you. Well, not really, because I don’t think she knows a lot about you. But what she has told us has been really good.”

There is a distant, sweeping wave of amusement and fondness. _“I WAS TOLD THAT YOU WERE BRIGHT. YOUR GOD SPEAKS HIGHLY OF YOU, LITTLE ONE. AND HE WAS NOT WRONG TO.”_

Jester laughs. “Of course he does! He loves me so much. Did he send you?”

 _“NO,”_ says the storm. _“BUT HE DID ALLOW ME PASSAGE. LITTLE SPARK, FAVORED OF THOSE WHO BRING CHEER, WOULD YOU ALLOW ME TO ASK A FAVOR?”_

“Of course!”

 _“MY CHOSEN HURTS,”_ the storm booms, in a voice that only Jester can hear. _“SHE BELIEVES THAT I ABANDONED HER. AND SHE IS NOT WRONG; I COULD NOT REACH HER. BUT SHE THINKS THAT I CHOSE RIGHTLY IN DOING SO.”_

“Oh.”

_“IT IS SOMETHING THAT YOU ARE...FAMILIAR WITH, I THINK.”_

Jester swallows, hard. Despite her best efforts – because she’s fine, really, she is! – she thinks back to the cold and snowy north, to the dark days and long nights, to cold cells whose iron would not give way no matter how hard she railed against them, to prayers that fell not on dead ears but that fell on _nothing_ , because there was _nobody there_ –

“Yeah,” she whispers, voice little more than a breath. She clears her throat. It doesn’t help. “Yeah.”

Thunder roils again across the city. A crackle of lightning glints across the Magician’s Judge, but Yasha – who is not cleaning it, not as she had cleaned the Skingorger from the blood of her friends, but is staring at it; not attuning, but just staring – does not flinch. 

_“THERE IS ANOTHER WHO WAS WITH YOU. MORE RECENTLY CHOSEN, BY THE MOTHER OF ALL. BUT HE, I THINK, WOULD NOT BE SO UNDERSTANDING.”_

Jester laughs weakly. “Yeah. He’s, uh...he can be a real dummy. Is there anything in particular that you want me to say? I’m really good at taking messages for people.”

The storm wavers. Jester knows the Traveller really really well, and they’ve had lots of conversations, so she recognizes hesitation when she sees it. _“NO,”_ the storm says eventually. _“NO. NOTHING IN PARTICULAR I WOULD WISH YOU TO SAY. I...WOULD NOT KNOW WHAT TO SAY.”_

“Well, what would you want her to hear?”

_“WHATEVER YOU THINK IS BEST.”_

Jester shakes her head. “Silly,” she says. “I know Yasha pretty well, but I know you do too. I can say lots of things, but I can’t say what you would say! What do _you_ want her to hear?” 

Again, the dissonant wavering of the storm. Above Jester’s head, the rain stills, then surges forth again, stronger this time. _“THAT I DO NOT REGRET CHOOSING HER,”_ the voice says, eventually, surer now. _“AND THAT SHE IS A CHAMPION I AM PROUD TO CALL MINE. THAT...THAT I HAVE SEEN OTHERS, OF HER ILK. OF HER DETERMINATION AND COURAGE. WHOSE NAMES ARE HALLOWED THROUGHOUT TIME.”_ The rain trickles and surges again, and then a strange rumble: not thunder, Jester realizes, but laughter. From the throat of a god. _“PERHAPS NOT THAT LAST PART. BUT ALL THAT CAME BEFORE. I WANT HER TO KNOW THAT I WOULD NOT CHOOSE DIFFERENTLY, THAT I WOULD REACH FOR HER STILL. AND THAT I AM...SORRY. THAT I COULD NOT HELP.”_

Jester nods. “Okay,” she says. “I can tell her that.”

There are no more words, but as she stands, the rain that patter-patters across her shoulders is almost warm. Not the stark cold of the rain of the north, but something – divine.

Yasha looks up as Jester draws near. It’s funny: Jester can see the moment Yasha realizes Jester wants to sit next to her, and nearly trips over her own legs in her haste to move over. Well, she tries to think it’s funny, anyway, so that she doesn’t have to think it’s sad. She knows how people act when they feel like they are bad, and that they have to make it up to others by being extra good or nice, because she sees Caleb do it all the time. Right now Jester can think it’s funny, but if Yasha does that in battle, she would die for it, and Jester…Jester really, really does not want that to happen.

“Hi, Jester,” Yasha says, in that soft voice that Jester has missed so, so much. “How…how are you?”

“I’m good,” she says, mostly honest. “Not too hurt. Mostly just really tired.” She smiles. “How about you?”

“Fine,” Yasha says, lying. Jester can see the exhaustion in her eyes like almost a palpable thing. And she really hopes she’s seeing things wrong when she sees fear in Yasha’s eyes, too, because that would mean that Yasha were afraid not of Jester but of _hurting_ Jester, and Jester doesn’t want Yasha to be afraid of hurting her friends ever again. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

Jester just stops herself from saying _yeah, me too_ , because Yasha isn’t okay. Not at all.

“I’m glad Obann’s dead,” she says instead, making herself comfortable against the doors to the temple where Yasha is sitting. Yasha is sitting kinda strange, all stiff and tense, so Jester makes her posture really open and relaxed, hoping to encourage Yasha into relaxing too, a little. It sort of works, which Jester counts as a victory as some of the tension seeps from her. She even sets the sword aside.

“Yeah,” Yasha says. “Me too.”

Overhead, the storm rumbles. Instead of relaxing further, Yasha sort of…hardens. Not anger, and not externally, but she stiffens, and her hand goes back to the hilt of her sword. Jester tries very hard not to frown, or tear up. She can’t imagine doing that. She can’t imagine seeing an open road, or a red sunrise, or a green door, and feeling bad. About herself _or_ the Traveller.

Especially now that she knows about the Stormlord. She could feel it, when he was talking to her. His frustration was almost a palpable thing. She wonders a little how long the Stormlord was trying to reach out to Yasha, never able to touch her, before they finally got Yasha free. She stops wondering pretty quickly, because the answer, she thinks, was a very long time. She remembers the scry. She remembers the chains. She wishes Yasha didn’t have to.

“I spoke to the storm,” Jester says quietly. “Well, the storm spoke to me actually. And he wanted to tell you something.”

Yasha looks at her, surprised and faintly alarmed. On guard. That aching sadness wells up in Jester again, and she pushes it away. “He wanted me to tell you that he’s proud of you. That he wouldn’t have picked anyone else as his champion even if he could pick again. That he’s sorry he couldn’t reach you. And also that you remind him of his other champions, and that he thinks your name will be hallowed in the halls of time or something,” Jester repeats. “Although I don’t think he really wanted me to tell you that last part. But I wanted you to know, so.”

Yasha’s face goes slack, then hardens again. She smiles, but it’s a brittle thing, and Jester knows enough about faking her own smiles to recognize one on Yasha’s face. “Thank you, Jester,” she says, and means that sincerely, at least. “And that’s very kind of him to say. But I don’t….”

She trails off. Her gaze rests on the Skingorger, still rusted – the sort of bloodred rust that can’t be removed with grit or stone – and her shoulders sink. “You don’t what?”

Yasha shakes her head. “It’s nothing.”

See, Jester kind of hates when people do this. Everyone sees her as a child. Which she still technically is, she thinks, but that’s _technically_. Everyone wants to protect her. Fjord and Beau and Caleb all do it, try to hide things from her, and now Yasha is doing it too and Jester is just sick of it. But as much as she wants to just shake Yasha by the shoulders and then hug her until she feels better, she knows that won’t do what she wants it to, so instead she leans back and bumps her head against Yasha’s shoulder and says, “It wasn’t your fault, Yasha, and we’re really glad to have you back.”

And it’s a risk, for sure, because Jester uses her tail to show affection way more than her horns. Besides, it’s unwieldy to use your head to tap people you like; tails are much more flexible, and longer too. But…that’s not what Molly did. Molly used his horns. And Jester saw Molly do this, a lot, when he was tired and Yasha was too and Yasha was hurting – he would rest his head on her shoulder and close his eyes, because he trusted her, implicitly, and her eyes would crinkle and go soft and she would wrap an arm around his shoulders and nothing bad would touch Molly, not as long as Yasha was there. Nothing bad would even dream of it. Not even his nightmares.

But Jester isn’t Molly, and this isn’t something that’s happened to Yasha in a long time, and for a second Jester thinks she’s going to push Jester away and run, and genuine fear chills through her, but then –

But then something in Yasha crumples, and she puts her sword down in a way that Jester thinks is meant to be soft but is more shaky than anything, and Yasha trembles as she pulls her knees to her chest – careful, so careful, not to dislodge Jester’s horns – and buries her face in them.

“Oh, Yasha,” Jester says, voice little more than a whisper. She scoots closer and wraps her arm around Yasha’s chest, head still bumping affectionately against her shoulder. “I saw you. When Obann had you. I scried on you a lot, and I….” Jester’s throat goes dry. “I’m so sorry.”

Yasha looks up, eyes red and welling, but not crying, not yet. “Don’t apologize, Jester,” she says, voice cracking. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“We left you _behind_ ,” Jester whispers, and oh, _shit_ , she hadn’t meant to make this about her, but now she’s crying and she doesn’t think she can stop now. “We – Obann got you and we just _left_ you, and I’m so sorry, Yasha, and you were – you were fighting _so hard_ and I saw you fighting and he made you do these awful things, and I’m so sorry it took us so long to find you, and your god was fighting so hard too, and this is the second time that he – ” She breaks off, trying _so hard_ not to sob. “I missed you so much, and Beau kept looking for storms even when the night was super clear and Nott kept picking flowers and I think, you know, I think she has a collection going for you but I don’t know if she wanted me to tell you that and I, I kept seeing you, I scried on you whenever I could and I kept talking but you couldn’t _hear_ me and I just didn’t want you to think you were alone but I couldn’t get to you and I’m so – ”

She chokes off when two arms wrap around her, holding her tight. Suddenly, she can’t smell musty old temple anymore, she can only smell blood and old leather and the faint, faint smell of lavender. Somehow, it’s that last one that breaks her, because despite all of this and despite everything, at least Yasha still smells just a little bit like flowers. 

She hadn’t meant to cry like this, she really hadn’t, but she can feel Yasha shaking around her too, so Jester snakes her arms around Yasha’s stomach and thinks that if she’s going to sob like a little child at least she’s not doing it alone.

For all that Jester has seen of Yasha on the battlefield, her arms are incredibly comforting. There’s very little give to them, but being held by Yasha isn’t at all like a cell, it’s more like a tower built around her, with windows and light, where nothing can get at her, not even nightmares. She missed Yasha so, so much.

“I’m sorry,” Jester whispers again, not even knowing if Yasha can really hear her with Jester’s face buried in her chest. “I just missed you so much.”

“I missed you too,” Yasha says softly, voice still shaking a little. Her nose rests on the top of Jester’s head, all of her curled around Jester, and Jester doesn’t want to move ever again. “All of you. I didn’t know if – if you were….”

“I know.” Jester pats her side, as firmly as she can, which isn’t very firm at all. She’s really tired. “I just wanted to tell you we were coming.”

“Thank you.”

Jester nods weakly. She’s not too sure they deserve those thanks, but she’s also too tired to argue. “Your god really loves you,” she says instead.

And it could be coincidence, that the thunder would choose that moment to roll so loudly that the door itself – the door to Pelor’s domain, the great intricate gate of blackwood and carvings wrought through with gold – would shake nearly off its hinges, but Jester doesn’t think it is. Going from the way Yasha suddenly startles around her, like the thunder had surprised her, she thinks Yasha knows too.

“I saw him,” Jester continues, when the thunder subsides enough for her to talk again. “He was so angry. He was trying to hard to reach you. But the guy who had you, Tharizdun, he’s…super strong. Strong enough that even the Stormlord couldn’t beat him. I’m sorry.”

“The Angel of Irons is named…Tharizdun?”

“Sort of.” Jester sits up, not pulling away from Yasha, of course not, but far enough to wipe her eyes on her sleeve and smile up at her, tremulous and shaky. “There’s a whole lot we have to tell you, but the Angel isn’t actually…real. It’s a cover for one of the really old Betrayer Gods. The Chained Oblivion. He…he’s stronger than the Stormlord. He’s, like, _super_ old.”

“Oh,” Yasha says. Her gaze falls somewhere over Jester’s shoulder, brows furrowed, thinking. “I had no idea.”

“Yeah, we didn’t know either until super recently. But then we met this woman named Allura and she was super powerful and when she cast this spell we saw you but we also saw, like, the Stormlord and the Oblivion and we…we saw how hard he was fighting, you know? He was _really_ pissed.”

Finally, _finally_ , a small smile slips across Yasha’s face. “He does spend a lot of time being angry.”

“But not at you.”

“No,” Yasha says quietly, that thoughtful furrow returning. “Not at me.”

Jester nods. She knew that, of course, but she wanted Yasha to think about it too. “We’ve talked to a lot of gods recently. We talked to the Wildmother about this super old guy named Halas, and then we talked about Ioun, and of course I still talk to the Traveller all the time and oh my _gosh_ Yasha did you notice Fjord’s accent? That’s how he really talks all the time! And he totally said, like, _fuck you_ to Uk’otoa and chucked his sword in a bunch of lava. And _then_ he got rolled up in seaweed and came out kind of buff and now he’s a paladin of the Wildmother, but between you and me I don’t think he’s super good at it yet and – ”

A soft sound interrupts Jester’s monologue. She looks up, concerned, but finds Yasha laughing.

A quiet little thing, mostly covered by a sheepish hand, but Yasha is…laughing.

Jester is maybe a little bit staring. She feels really full, all at once, something big and welling within her that makes her eyes sting, but instead of crying again she pulls Yasha into a big hug, like that could say all the things for her that she wants to say, but doesn’t quite know how. She made Yasha laugh. Yasha who, ten minutes ago, looked as though she would never smile again, and Jester made her _laugh_.

“Oh, Jester,” Yasha says, in that fond voice that Jester has missed so so much. “It is so good to be back.”

“I’m glad you’re here,” Jester says, and means it.

Lightning cracks from the sky. Jester looks up and sees a faint orange glow rising from one corner of the church. There, she sees, Caleb and Nott have created their own little pool against the stillwater that suffuses the whole floor. At the sound, Caduceus cracks one eye open, ear flicking as his gaze falls on Beau and Fjord, who are just now stirring from sleep.

Above them, the rain does not abate. Together, their shoulders pressed together, she and Yasha listen closely. And Jester thinks, when she listens very hard, that the rumbling bass of the thunder sounds a little like the triumphant percussion of one great victory drum.

**Author's Note:**

> It's scientifically impossible not to love Jester. Mortal or god or none of the above, Jester _will_ meet you and you _will_ love her. The Stormlord didn't really stand a chance. Neither, for that matter, did Yasha. 
> 
> Two weeks until Obann Fight 2: Electric Boogaloo. If Yasha gets another HDYWTDT on Obann, I will fully cry. And that is both a promise and a threat.


End file.
